Bedsores
by AUTOMATICjoy
Summary: [[Royai]] A sugary account of what happened during Roy's hospital stay, during which, Roy starts to understand his subordinates, and the callousness of the State.


A sugary account of what went on when Roy was in the hospital at the end of the series. I'm not particularly proud of this, but I thought it was good enough. So, yeah, have at it.

Disclaimer: FMA ain't mine, durr.

It was a struggle to stay upright for him because of his chest. So much so, that he wanted to stay flat constantly—flat and unmoving. How he ached for it.

But regardless of Roy's yearning, bedsores were the enemy. And Hawkeye took the responsibility to reposition him every couple of hours or so. Roy would resent these times, and vocalized it often.

"But General," Hawkeye would explain, "To heal, you must move."

She sweetened it for him sometimes, "Not much though, just a little."

For the first time in her life, Hawkeye didn't make Roy strive for excellence. To go beyond the standard—and Roy was _very_ thankful.

The wound made breathing difficult sometimes, too; with his chest's rise and fall he felt it—deep and stinging. Roy would replay the battle in his head, and wince as he remembered the Fuhrer dragging his rapier across his chest. Luckily, the Fuhrer had been either kind or stupid, and missed all his major organs—Roy suspected the former.

Whenever a particularly heavy wave of pain hit, he would grit his teeth and swallow down the urge to cry out. All he wanted to do was to brawl and shriek, and buzz for the nurse for more morphine, but Roy was a gentleman, and resisted. There was, of course, a lady present.

There was, actually, _always_ a lady present. Hawkeye had refused to leave Roy at any point in the beginning, despite being haggard, hungry, and almost frantic. But as Roy had slowly begun to recover, she gave in to her basic needs. She showered in the hospital locker rooms, and Roy would force her to eat his pudding cup—that came with breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Hawkeye slept—only on occasion, really—on the pullout underneath the window. Otherwise, she was diligently at work, trying to keep Roy at his most content.

The eye was a completely different matter all together though. It was eons more difficult than the stab wound. To learn to function by himself again, Roy would have to relearn everything. It was like having the whole world turned on its head, and someone to have to learn to adjust to it. He could not do anything anymore, could not drive, walking was difficult—he felt robbed. But Roy tried to not comment on it, however. Because there was a nagging notion in the back of his mind, that maybe, just maybe, Archer hadn't fired a shot. That the blame should be put elsewhere…

And after letting his mind wonder on this, he would quickly push it out of his sub-conscious. He wouldn't ever feel resentful towards Hawkeye, not ever, he promised himself.

What Roy didn't understand, was that Riza was well aware of this idea—was half-convinced of it, herself. But it only fueled her to work harder, to serve him forever, for always. She worked so hard, Hawkeye seemed inhuman.

"You work harder than the nurses, Hawkeye," Mustang noticed, and then promptly told her to leave him alone and go function like a human being again. He _did_ have four other subordinates. "You've done everything. Let one of them take over, or I might have to cut their salaries."

The rest of the team—with their now much more abundant free time—were worried for the two. Falman, devout to a foreign religion he had discovered in his travels, was praying for Roy and Riza. Havoc would sit in with Hawkeye sometimes and assist her. Fuery and Breda—completing Roy's weekly ritual for him—laid fresh cut flowers on Hughes's grave.

They all had good intentions, and didn't mean to hurt Roy, but somehow, he felt a little sour about his unusual attention.

Roy—noticing all his special treatment aloud—observed one morning, bitterly, "You all treat me like a martyr."

Hawkeye stopped fixing him his dose of medicine and stared at him. She did not answer for a few sharply silent moments, and then finally said gently, "You are a martyr."

Roy frowned. So did Hawkeye. And the world opened up like a flower to him. _You are a martyr._

Hawkeye would not lie to him.

-----

Oh Lord, the Alpha and Omega, forgive the General for his trespasses, for the sins that taint his life. He only wishes for the better of others, so please, spare him. Heal him. Give him the understanding that I have. Give Roy faith. Give Roy love. In your grand name, amen.

Falman would recite this everyday. Hawkeye heard him once, while Roy had nodded off in his hospital cot, Veto began to deliver his prayer.

Hawkeye—in the corner of the room—saw Falman's display. His hand hovered over Roy's forehead, his eyes were closed. Falman's voice was low and was shaking. She had never seen anything like this come from Falman—the usually tight-lipped solider.

"Warrant Officer," Hawkeye said suspiciously, "What the _hell_ are you doing?"

"I'm praying," Falman responded bluntly, and he continued, "_He only wishes for…_"

"Faith won't help General Mustang," Hawkeye stated coldly, and she spread a cold rag on Roy's sweating brow—pushing Veto Falman aside.

Falman stopped his sermon, "Then what will, ma'am?"

"I will."

-----

"Don't smoke in here, you bastard," Roy scowled.

"Hey man," Havoc said to his defense, "You never say anything about it at the office."

"But this isn't the office, Lieutenant," Hawkeye added politely, and persisted in cutting up Roy's food for him.

"Havoc," Roy said, touching his eye patch jokingly, "Can't you see that I'm ailing?"

Jean drew in on his cigarette, and blew a cloud into Roy's face.

"The smoke," Roy sputtered and faked a few wheezy coughs; he drew his hand to his chest, "Oh, Hawkeye, I do not think I'll make it. Let you be the last thing I see…" His breathing became progressively labored, "Do not forget me."

And he collapsed back onto his pillow, and let his tongue stick out slightly as a final touch to his performance.

"Bravo," Havoc muttered, and Hawkeye clapped demurely, not looking up from her busywork.

Havoc smothered out his cigarette against his boot. Roy's little act was at least worth that.

-----

Kain came in smelling like cut flowers and dewed grass. He had graveyard dirt underneath his fingernails and a distant look in his eye.

"How is he?" Roy asked absently up to the ceiling.

"Hughes is… He's, fine, uh, sir," Kain answered, twiddling with the thick frames of his glasses.

Breda scuttled in quietly, and laid his groceries down, "And dead," Breda added bitterly.

Hawkeye nearly dropped her knife on the floor; the muscles in Fuery's cheeks went slack. And the room grew as morose as Roy's dead expression.

He rolled over in his cot, and Hawkeye drew up his sheets.

Roy closed his eyes, and wished he could join Hughes down in the grave—turn cold and leave the State all behind.

That Hughes—oh, that Hughes.

-----

"A letter from the State," Hawkeye handed the crested letter over to Roy.

Roy tore through the letter without regard of the golden lining and prestigious Ametris crest—he scanned through it with a scowl.

"I need to report back to work in five days," Roy read.

"But you've only been on leave for a few months," Hawkeye huffed, the anger bubbling up all over.

"But, Hawkeye, I'm a State Alchemist," Roy explained grimly, "If I die there's always another."

_And when I do, they'll wash me away with a hose. _

"That's how useless I am."

"Not to me," Hawkeye said softly, and bandaged him up again like a present—shiny and new.

-----

Over.

_Fo'rizzle, review damn you. Flame if you want, but whatever you do, don't pity-review me. Lt. Kaffee said it best: _I want the truth!


End file.
